


United We Purge

by Jenye



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Purge!AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenye/pseuds/Jenye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just remember all the good the purge does."</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Evil runs Hell's Kitchen, but one night out of the year that evil is legal. || Kastle Purge!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	United We Purge

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Anonymous' request via Tumblr: "Hello is it possible for you to write a purge style prompt for kastle?"
> 
> So this is the thing that has been my obsession recently. This (plus my marathon, but that doesn’t count) has kept me off of all things social media in order to get this done. Tbh, I’m not proud of a lot of my work, but this little piece was a blast. I have a HUGE obsession with these movies…like, for real. And the second one?! The very best. You’ll see I was heavily inspired by that. Anyway - I’ll shut up, enjoy!

_“Blessed be the New Founding Fathers for letting us Purge and cleanse our souls, Blessed be America, a nation reborn.”_

 

His finger twitches at his side as he stares at the television screen behind the glass of a small electronics shop.  Fucking cowards, every last one of them.  Justice is deserved three-hundred and sixty-five days out of the year and these wannabe vigilantes think they’re actually accomplishing something under the blanket of legal activity within the twelve hours of “freedom”.  And to those only serving their selfish desires?  Lower than cowards. 

 

But he was generally considered out of his skull, so what could he possibly know about something as politically charged as the Purge?  He knows this isn’t the country he fought for and it certainly isn’t the country he killed for.  News outlets and political figures can brag all they want about the low crime rates that exist because of the Purge.  But what about the blood thirst their society now sees as normal?  What about the greedy taking advantage of those less fortunate and offering protection at a premium cost?  What about a society so focused on one night of revenge that the rest of the year is spent making some sick sort of grocery list of things they wish to do with their twelve-hour rampage? 

 

This new tradition has created a culture of addicts.  People who crave blood, desire what’s not theirs, and actually _believe_ it’s their American duty to go out and get it by whatever means necessary.  In his darkest hours he’s almost glad his family hadn’t survived long enough into this sick holiday to see it’s ripple effect. 

 

He wrenches his neck to the side at the memory of their last Purge, the senseless robbery of their home that lead to their kidnapping and torture.  Then they’d shot them, one by one.  He wouldn’t be here today if the fools had watched the clock more carefully.  The bastard was just about to pull the trigger, Frank screaming that he should, when the siren goes off — the Purge was over.  And they simply walked out.  Leaving him tied to a chair with the bodies of his family littered around him. 

 

His taste for tainted blood didn’t just occur once a year now.  He doesn’t have a wishlist of people that need his version of justice once those sirens go off.  No, his justice is served whenever and however deemed necessary.  And those bastards hadn’t lived a week after their joyride of terror.  He made fucking sure his face was the last thing they saw before the trigger was pulled. 

 

Being something of an enigma now, people can’t figure out why someone would cause such havoc illegally when once a year all of his worst sins are considered routine.  But that’s just it, Frank doesn’t want his ways to be routine, because the pain behind his actions is anything but normal.  And it’s pathetic that now they live in a society where if someone looks at you wrong, once a year you can seek revenge.  That woman who cut you off on the highway last week?  Kill her this Thursday.  The guy who always seems to get _everything_ and it pisses you off?  Slit his throat once the OK is given. 

Killing is his answer and he knows most believe it to be wrong, but he’s fine with that.  He accepts the consequences and takes the blame.  He doesn’t hide under the guise of public permission, because his form of justice doesn’t need permission and doesn’t expect praise or understanding.  What he does is fucking _wrong_ and he knows it.  But he believes he’s the lesser of the two evils, not an answer to the world’s fucking problems.

 

_“This is your emergency broadcast announcing the commencement of the annual purge.”_

 

His eyes flicker back toward the screen just as the siren sounds above.  In front of him, a thick steel gate starts to drop down around the electronic shop and he steps back.  Turning into the deserted streets, he steps into the broken asphalt of Hell’s Kitchen and shoves his hands in his pockets. 

_“Reminder that all emergency services will be temporarily suspended.  Good luck and remember all the good the Purge does.”_

 

Frank Castle hates the fucking Purge. 

 

\--

 

“You need to be getting home, Karen.”

 

Jumping, she turns in her chair to face the doorway.  She’s deep in research strung across her office when his voice startles her.  Giving a small smile, one filled with exhaustion from trying to spin this article.  _Stories don’t disappear, they change — become new stories._   He’s right, but what does _his_ story become?  She’ll be laughed out of every news circle, undoubtedly investigated by authorities, and probably locked up if she put what she believed was his story. 

 

She bites down on her lip, running her fingers through her tangles before giving a small nod, “Yeah, uh — I think I’ll stay here tonight.”

 

Ellison watches her for a long moment as he leans against her doorframe.  They’re the last two left in the building and she knows overnight security has the night off.  But still she figures she’s safer here than in her terribly protected apartment. 

 

“I’ve got a lot of work to do on this piece and I think I’m finally getting somewhere.” She glances back at her computer screen, the Word document still only holding one sentence she’ll probably end up erasing.

 

He doesn’t believe her, but he doesn’t argue.  Just nods, pushing himself away from her doorway, but glancing back, “Stay safe tonight.”

 

“You too.” She smiles softly.

 

Her stomach drops momentarily in fear, but she quickly swallows it back down.  Grabbing a nearby pen she starts scribbling senselessly in order to look busy.  She feels bile rolling up in her throat at memories she barely chokes down on a normal day, but tonight?  They riddle through her mind like a dog released from a day’s enclosure.  Her chest tightens and her hands quake. 

 

_It wasn’t your fault_ ; that was the chant she had tried for years.  But the relief everyone, including an overpriced shrink, swore would come once she realized that never did.  Maybe it’s because she still doesn’t believe — she was the one who had told him they could make the trip quickly before the sirens sounded.  They still had several hours before commencement.  And then someone slashed her tires, and nearly twenty miles from home.  Their parents out of town and roadside assistance all but laughed at her over the phone.  Stranded — they made a run for it.

 

It’s a miracle they lasted as long as they did, or that she made it at all.  He took a knife to the throat at nearly four in the morning.  She had heard stories of the crazy antics across the country, but she’d been fortunate enough to know the protection wealth could afford.  Not that night.  She saw the true evil the human race was capable of  — the kind of people that lived for a night of cruelty.   

 

She now knows emptiness in people’s eyes when they are true monsters.  Her attention flickers to an article atop her pile; his picture plastered on the front page.  Maybe that’s why she believes in him.  Maybe that’s why she fought so hard for his story.  Maybe that’s why her heart still aches when she thinks of him.  His eyes aren’t empty.  He’s not a monster.  He’s a man engulfed in sorrow and the only minimal relief he feels is in his form of justice.  It’s not right, but she gets it. 

 

The main office door shuts to signal Mitchell’s exit and she moves quickly to reinforce any locks.  The office is a ghost town, but she moves around shutting off lights and locking all external doors.  If all goes to plan, no one will even know she’s locked herself away in this empty office building tonight.  But this is the Purge — plans usually go by the waste side. 

 

When she’s back in her office she shuts off her overhead light, leaving nothing but her desk light on.  She reaches for her .380 sitting in her top drawer, moving it to sit atop her pile of papers.  She then walks toward her windows, leaning against the edge and glancing down at the streets below, only jumping momentarily when the sirens sound.

 

“This is your emergency broadcast announcing the commencement of the annual purge.” She mumbles with pathetic accuracy.  Her arms cross over her chest as she says a quick prayer to a god she believes left them a long time ago.  Walking away from the window she sits back down at her desk. 

 

Karen Page hates the fucking Purge.

 

\--

 

She must have dozed off somewhere after eleven.  She wakes with a start, jumping up from where she lays atop her numerous files, articles, and notes.  Her pen still in her hand, she pushes several strands of hair out of her face as she tries to get her wits about her.  It takes a moment for the haze to clear as she looks around her office and then she hears the revving of engines below.

 

Immediately she reaches for the switch on her lamp and turns it off — she wants no evidence of her presence to be seen from the streets below.  Grabbing for her gun, she stands up and makes her way over toward her window.  She avoids the shine of the outside streetlights, standing to the side.  What she sees below causes her heart rate to quicken.  A group — what looks like a ragtag gang — has formed.  A vehicle that resembles something of a beat up ice cream truck is surrounded by several figures circling around on bikes, motorcycles, and even a skateboard. 

 

Unlike the rest of the city, they want their presence known.  They beat on the sides of the truck, fire gunshots into the air, yelling and screaming words she can’t quite make out.  But she sees their attention has been drawn to her building.  She bites down on her bottom lip, holding tighter to her gun as she breathes deeply.  Slowly the panic starts to seep into her skin like hot flames melt into steel. 

 

“They’re hunters.”

 

Instantly she twists around toward her doorway, gun pointed and finger on the trigger.  Her heart is in her throat and she’s not sure what causes her to pause, but when she sees the familiar stocky figure standing in her doorframe with his hands held up in surrender she can’t help the sigh of relief that floods out of her like new life.

 

The room is dark except for the streetlights’ glow from outside and when he steps into the triangle of light she can see the ways his busted lips twitch upward.  He nearly got blown away and the bastard simply smirks. 

 

“Jesus Christ, Frank.” She gulps, her hands lowering as he continues to step forward.  And she’s suddenly overcome with the urge to pull him close to her.  It’s a new and strange emotion, one she wants to blame on their current state.  But she knows it goes deeper than that, goes farther than just tonight and what it stands for. 

 

“Almost took the shot?” He offers with a dry laugh and she can’t help but smile even if it’s momentary.

 

“We really need to stop meeting like this.”

 

“I’d prefer if we didn’t.”

 

Their eyes meet for a long silence as she tries to decode his words.  His expression is unreadable and it makes her fidget.  She feels smaller somehow, like she’s exposed for the entire world to see.  But it’s not the entire world, it’s Frank Castle and she senses he already knows more than he’s ever let on.  Always holding his hand close to his chest.  It’s new territory for her, but it’s not an unwelcome emotion.  In fact, something warms within her before his eyes trail toward her window.

 

“Paid by the wealthiest of the wealthy.” He nods toward the gang below. “To bring back the bait.”

 

“Bait?” She questions, coming back to stand next to him.

 

“Innocent civilians — the ones who couldn’t afford the kind of protection it takes to keep assholes like that out.”

 

Karen swallows as she senses where he’s going with it.  She once refused to believe this world could be so cruel, but that was before her brother’s blood ran cold in her hands one rainy Purge morning in the middle of the goddamn street.  She rubs her hands against her sweater subconsciously trying to remove the sticky feeling of his blood, of her guilt. 

 

“They take them to God knows where and…well,” Frank glances toward her as if the words are sticking to the back of his throat. “Lets just say at least in the Hunger Games they have a _chance_ to defend themselves.” 

 

She’d be impressed by his pop culture reference if she weren’t so mortified of the idea of people simply using other people as prey for their sick and twisted, demented desires.  Her fingers come to rest over her mouth, her thumb and index finger worrying her bottom lip, a nervous habit she’s long since realized causes the constant state of chapped lips she suffers. 

 

“How do you know all this?” She questions.

 

He grunts in feigned amusement, “Evil talks.”

 

Before he can elaborate, not that he was actually planning to, the building’s alarm system sounds and the emergency lights spread throughout the building come on.  Karen jumps, but Frank stays relatively calm.  He simply looks up toward the ceiling and then towards her.  He doesn’t wait before he’s placing a hand on the small of her back and pushing her toward her office door, stopping only long enough to flip on her overhead light, “We need to go.”

 

Quickly they’re moving down the hallway, Frank has stepped in front of her, but laces his fingers through hers as he pulls her along.  Her free hand still clutches onto her gun. 

 

“Toward the roof.” He says as they enter the main lobby just outside her third floor office.  “They’re probably still getting past the main doors — we can head to the roof and back down the fire escape on the other side of the building.”

 

She wants to argue that they should just cross the hall and climb out that window, but she quickly realizes he’s trying not to draw any attention in their direction.  If they don’t know where they are they’ll keep searching — giving them enough time to get out. 

 

He doesn’t let go of her hand until they break out onto the rooftop and he turns to place a pipe through the handle, holding them off if they do figure out their location.  Karen moves toward the edge of the building, the side she’d originally seen the gang on and her heart drops. 

 

“They’re gone.” She mumbles, before speaking a bit clearer. “Frank, they’re gone.”

 

He’s beside her then, looking down before moving quickly to see all four sides of the building.  No sign of the gang anywhere.  But they’re not gone and they both know that.  They’re hiding in wait, knowing someone is bound to break out of the building before their foot team catches them.   They’ve got to keep moving.  They’re sitting ducks up here and it’s only a matter of time before that door is busted through.

 

She doesn’t wait for his lead as she moves toward the fire escape, shoving her gun in the back of her jeans as she hoists herself up and over the old bricks and down the ladder.  He’s right behind her and they’re moving swiftly until they reach the third floor.  Frank hears it first and quickly grabs her arm to pull her against the building and out of sight from the window nearby. 

 

Their voices are taunting, even through the glass.  They eerily sing as the search the rooms; Karen jumps slightly when she hears the crash of what must be a bookshelf being pushed to the floor.  Frank is leaning into her, as if trying to blend her entirely into the wall.  One hand presses against the brick near her head while the other hovers just over her hip.  She clinches her eyes shut and can practically feel her heart pounding against her chest. 

 

They’re completely still until the noise starts to fade.  Frank slowly tilts his body toward the window, peeking inside before he looks back at her.  She knows she must look like a ghost and his expression is etched with concern as he reaches up and clutches the back of her neck, as if forcing her not to look away. 

 

“You’re safe, okay?”

 

She nods, pushes back the sting of tears.  And they’re moving again, making a final dash for the streets.  Karen realizes as her feet touch down on the concrete that she’s not sure where this will lead them.  What’s they’re plan?  It’s only nearing midnight, they can’t run all night.

 

Finally she looks at him and points just beyond, “My — my apartment is about seven blocks from here.”

 

Frank looks around the darkness of the alley, as if weighing his options.  But soon he’s nodding, moving back toward her with a leading hand on the small of her back. “Okay, lead the way.”

 

Their plan is doomed to fail and they both know it, but neither says anything.  Frank just keeps her close and they try to stick to the shadows.  It’s useless, because the alley ends after this block and they’ll be walking on the well-lit streets of Hell’s Kitchen.  _Fuckers can barely afford to fill a pothole, but they keep their streets glowing like midday_ , Frank thinks. 

 

They’ve barely stepped onto the streets when they see the ice cream truck turn out of a nearby alley and from behind several motorcycles pull up to circle them.  The streets roar with the sounds of engines and Frank stands completely in front of Karen.  She grabs at the material of his jacket, keeping her eyes on the masked figures climbing off their motorcycles.

 

“Well, well.” A man with a demented clown mask on says as he steps out of the truck, a baseball bat hanging from his hand.  “Out for a romantic stroll tonight?”

 

Frank says nothing; he just eyes the man in front of him.  He is getting closer and closer to them.  Karen’s attention is on the two behind them, faces painted poorly with black and white paints.  It’s obvious they’re the muscle.  Their machetes and blades hang from their hands like well-loved trinkets.  Others have started to gather around, circling Frank and Karen easily. 

 

“That pretty blonde hair is gonna run a little red tonight.” One of them steps up, reaching out to run his fingers through a piece of her hair.  But their hand doesn’t last there long before Frank has pushed it away, twisting it in a way that causes an ugly cranking sound to echo through the night along with screams of pain.  The man falls to his knees in an instant and Frank takes no time in finishing the job with a quick snap of his neck. 

 

But before his body has hit the ground several are jumping Frank, beating him with every weapon they have.  Karen reacts in an instant, pulling her gun and firing at the nearest gang member she can.  Her aim is true and the bullet cuts through his temple.  His blood smears across the asphalt and her stomach curdles.  The night goes silent for a second before all hell rains down once more, but now their target is her.

 

Frank doesn’t stand a chance, he’s being held back and beaten by three of them while the rest descend on her.  She tries to threaten them with her gun, but she’s easily overpowered and her gun is knocked from her hands.  She feels a hard punch to the gut, before a knee smashes into her nose.  She tastes blood soon after and her vision blurs with a blow to the back of the head.  Her knees have just hit the ground when she hears Frank’s unmistakable voice over the chaos.

 

“Let her go!” His orders fall on deaf ears until he continues. “Let her go!  Let her go and I’ll go without a fight.  Think — think how much you’ll make if you bring your employers The Punisher.”

 

“Enough!” The leader cries out and everyone freezes.  Karen tries to catch her breath and every little one hurts.  She looks up at Frank, about as battered as she is.  He stands with practiced calm, a calm that hides such a deadly storm.  The man in the clown mask is stalking toward Frank, pointing his baseball bat. “I fucking knew it the moment you came out of that alley.  You’re him.”

 

“That’s right.” He watches the man. “And if you let her go I’ll go without a fight.”

 

“Frank!” Karen shakes her head, starting to walk toward him, but two pairs of hands wrap around each arm and she’s held back.  She pulls against them, pain shooting through her body, “Frank, don’t do this.”

 

Frank just looks over at her and his expression breaks her.  His mind is made up, if they agree to the deal he’s signing his death warrant without a second thought.  He can’t hold her gaze for long and soon she tastes the salt of her tears mixing with blood.  The leader moves to discuss something with several other members and Karen continues to beg quietly, “Please, Frank.  Don’t do this — please don’t do this.” 

 

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” The leader says with too much excitement and nausea floods Karen’s senses.  “I’m a generous man, so I’m even going to let you say goodbye to your pretty little thing.  Of course, I’m not promising she’ll live the night, but you have my word her death won’t come by our hands.”

 

Without a word, Frank calmly nods and moves toward Karen.  She’s released from her hold and is wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing quietly, “We can figure this out.  Please don’t do this.”

 

“It’s done.” He groans in pain as he tightly wraps her up in her arms.  She feels his nose against the crook of her neck.  She knows his blood is now smeared there, but she’s beyond caring.  She figures there isn’t much they can do if she refuses to detach herself from him, but soon he’s pushing her away to look into her eyes.  His hands cup her cheeks as he searches her face, “Go straight home, you got it?  Do not stop.  Do not try anything stupid.  This is done.  It’s over.  You’re gonna move on, you got it?”

 

A fresh sob escapes her throat and she tries her best to nod, but it’s not good enough because Frank is shaking his head, “Say it.” 

 

“I — I —“ Karen tries, but it’s broken.

 

“You’re strong.  Fuck, you’re stronger than all of us.” He continues, briefly looking around them. “Now you’re going to turn and run — don’t walk, _run_.  You got that?”

 

Karen nods, her hands tangle with his as they press against her cheeks.  His forehead comes to rest against her in a moment of stillness.  She feels it; it’s like a currant that causes a quiet calmness in her.  And before she can think she’s moving forward and pressing her lips to his.  At first he’s frozen, but soon he’s responding with a passion she didn’t know he’d have for her.  But it’s over all too soon and Frank is stepping back toward the gang.

 

“Run.”

 

Her feet don’t move at first, but finally they do.  And she doesn’t look back.

 

\--

 

The haze that engulfs her from the moment she walks in her doorway is the only thing keeping her from being completely strangled by her grief.  She’s in shock; her physical pain doesn’t even cross her mind as she collapses onto the floor in front of her couch.  Her knees curl into her chest and she hugs them tight, sitting in darkness. 

 

Her mind can only process one thing: _You should have gone after him._   And she should have.  Like her brother, she’ll forever wear this scar of guilt.  It’ll be that pit in her stomach for months.  It’ll be that crimpling breakdown she has years after this night.  He’ll haunt her like the mistake she never got the change to make.  They’ll be the epic, dare she say, love story she’ll never be able to retell. 

_You’re stronger than all of us._

 

She’s not.  She’s rotted to her very core and healing is something she’s long since stopped expecting. 

 

Somewhere between her exhausted outbursts and quiet bouts of utter disbelief, the sun rises and a new day begins.  She barely hears the sirens outside that signal the end of this godforsaken night.  But soon her phone — sitting atop her coffee table buzzes.  First it’s Matt, soon followed by Foggy.  She answers, only because she doesn’t wish them to come over.  Mumbles that she’s fine — just tired.  They leave it alone and for that she’s thankful.

 

Once she’s able to move herself from the floor, pain starting to rise to the surface, she makes her way to the shower.  Blood runs the water red and she stands there until it runs cold. 

 

Standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom she observes the damage.  Her ribs are bruised purple, her nose probably fractured, causing two black eyes to form.  Her lip is busted wide open and she can feel a pretty nasty cut on the back of her head.  She’s damaged from the inside out.  Her heart aches.

 

When she hears the knock at her door she ignores it.  There’s no one she wants to see.  She moves tediously to put on an old college t-shirt and a pair of underwear.  She’s just about to brush her hair, looking for anything to do to take her mind off _everything_ , when there’s another knock.  This one is harsh and persistent.  Anger boils in her blood and she stomps down her hallway.

 

Undoing the chain lock and turning the deadbolt, she opens the door.  Her words melt on her tongue when she sees him.  His jacket is gone, his shirt soaked in blood.  His face is swollen and just as red as his shirt.  The hunch in his shoulders speaks to the exhaustion coursing through him.  She’s speechless and they seem to be at a standstill as they look at each other.

 

And then it’s like a dam breaks loose and she’s sobbing, throwing arms around his neck.  He groans in pain, but holds her close.  His hands grip tightly against her t-shirt.  All of her emotions overrule her and she’s weak against him.  Her legs give out and she can feel him holding all of her weight.  Soon he’s moving to place an arm behind her knees and lifting her up.

 

He doesn’t ask questions, he doesn’t say anything.  He simply walks down her hall like he’s been there a million times and turns into her bedroom.  Soon she’s being tucked into the mattress and he’s trying to pull away from her, but her hand reaches out and snags along his arm.  She doesn’t have to say anything, but he does disappear.  Returning shortly after with a freshly washed face — still broken, but a little less bloody.  Grabbing his shirt by the back of his collar, he tosses it over his head.  If she thought her bruises were bad, his are terrible. 

 

After shedding his jeans, he climbs into bed next to her.  She instantly melts herself into his open arms, her tears still streaming down her face.  The only thing helping to calm her is the sound of his breathing and the way his fingers trance a line up and down her arm. 

 

Sleep has never come so peacefully. 

 

\--

 

She wakes up alone.  And the panic sets in.  She sits up quickly, wincing in pain, fearing it had all been a dream until she sees the bloody t-shirt on the floor.  Her hands run over the tiny blood stains on her pillow as she tastes copper, her lip must have busted open.  She wipes it with the back of her hand before slowly crawling out of bed.  Her feet are cold against the cheap hardwood as she walks down the hall.  The smell of strong coffee welcomes her. 

 

Seeing him standing in her kitchen without a shirt, focused on a pan sitting atop the stove would _almost_ be domestic, if it weren’t for the brutally beat of state of his being.  But still he’s the best sight she can ever remember seeing.  She watches as he pushes something around inside the pan, heat rising and food sizzling. 

 

He catches her watching him and he pauses, “Morning.”

 

“Morning.” She responds, being drawn to him like a magnet.

 

“I thought —“ Frank stutters, looking back down at the stove. “Well, after last night, you just need —“

 

One day they’ll talk about.  One day she’ll wrap herself around him in bed while he bears his soul of the terrors he went through that night.  The people he had to kill to make it back to her.  But today is not that day.  And she’s okay with that.  So when she walks toward him in the kitchen, leans against him, and places her hands on his cheeks she’s not looking for explanations.

 

And when her lips connect with his, she’s not looking for forever.  She’s looking for him.  She’s looking for this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts! Oh & as always, come say hey over on Tumblr — @likcoln


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